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As far back as junior high school, I noticed that cliques formed along definite lines: preppies, geeks, stoners, jocks, and gangsters. I was fascinated with these various groups and wondered if it was possible to cross-fraternize, as it were. Being an honors student and athlete who never, ever got into trouble, I was especially interested in the bad kids, the weirdos, the ones everyone else shied away from.

I could never be bad, though I always found appealing the reputation of being bad, so it seemed that the next best thing was to hang out with some of these kids who got into fights, carried weapons, and had earrings hanging from every orifice. Understand, this was not easy for a clean-cut type like me to pull off. I had to find ways to get these kids to accept me without joining in their bad behavior.

One method I found effective was to learn the distinct languages of the groups I traversed. I would sit in the school cafeteria and survey the scene, noting where various groups were hanging out. Then I’d make my rounds.

“What up?” I’d say to some of my stoner friends huddled in a corner of the cafeteria.

“Hey,” a few of them might answer back. “What’s going down, man?”

“You guys look a little blazed right now. You’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

They’d giggle. “Hey, man, you gotta do what ya gotta do.”

“Yeah,” I’d agree. “I bought a eighth last night for twenty. Good shit. Some really good fuckin’ shit.”

“Really? What’s it laced with? Coke or something?” That sort of insider question might trip me up, so I’d just nod, hoping an affirmation wouldn’t set off any alarms.

“Well, man,” I’d say, “I gotta bail now. Let’s hook up later.”

“Cool.”

Next, I’d saunter over to another part of the cafeteria where the jocks were eating lunch and talking about their latest athletic exploits.

“You still training, Jason?” one of them might ask as I approached.

“Damn straight,” I’d say. “Feel these arms.”

At that point one of them could be counted on to grab my biceps and squeeze as hard as he could, trying to bring some pain.

After some more posturing and high-testosterone ribbing, I might see a teacher coming down the hall and choose to transform myself into another person altogether. Sometimes I’d do this all day, never growing tired of it, moving from one group to another.

The fact is, I enjoyed learning what made various people tick. As I’ve said previously, it armed me against potential threats, and it satisfied my curiosity.

During my last year of high school, I decided to learn about some of the most exotic people of all—transsexuals and transvestites. I thought they’d make an interesting topic for a paper I’d been assigned. I began to write individuals who described themselves as such, pretending to be one of them. In turn, they told me their stories, sent me pictures of themselves, and provided a wealth of information that proved invaluable when I began drafting letters to serial killers.

As part of my continued “training,” I also began answering ads placed by heterosexual women. I’d carefully study what each was looking for and then describe myself in such a way as to get a response. Getting replies turned out to be easy, though, so I began looking for bigger challenges.

I suppose that’s how I came round to my serial killer idea.

What bigger challenge was there than to try to outfox— and in the process learn about—someone who’d led police on a merry chase for years? As someone who considered himself an above-average but still amateur role-player, I could think of no greater turn-on than to go mano a mano with one of the country’s most lethal—and clever—Jekyll and Hydes.

10

The Questionnaire

Just prior to Thanksgiving vacation I was finally ready to send off a letter to my first subject, John Wayne Gacy. Every word was carefully constructed to project the image of someone who was young, lonely, needy, and yet also very desirable. If I was correct, the total “package” would represent the same kind of irresistible temptation that had attracted Gacy on over two dozen separate